


Bittersweet and Strange

by RiskPig



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Golden Lace, Rumbelle - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 09:26:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5622091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiskPig/pseuds/RiskPig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumplestiltskin and Belle never met in the Enchanted Forest. But fate finds a way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bittersweet and Strange

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why I'm writing this, I already have so much on my plate. But I really need to get this story out of my head.

Mr. Gold would not say that he disliked Storybrooke’s inhabitants. **  
**

He did not care for community obligations or neighborly camaraderie, but that was out of preference for solitude, rather than any ill-will. Each leased individual did not enter his mind beyond a sale, or Rent Day, and he liked that just fine.

However, if pressed, Mr. Gold could say that he disliked one person. And that person was the loud, crass, scantily-clad barfly Lacey French.

That girl held no tolerance for good manners. For as long as he could remember, he had to search all over town before finally ending up at The White Rabbit to collect her rent. He did not know, or care, how she always had her money; as far as he knew, Miss French was unemployed. Yet, there she always stood, leaning on a pool table, with crumpled bills in her hand, and that insufferable smirk on her face. Then the shouting would ensue.

He did not expect today to be different.

Rent Day was Mr. Gold’s favorite day of the month. He silently relished in the fear, and reluctant respect from his tenants; the dread that he would turn them out of their homes without a thought kept the money coming, on schedule. The thrill would pass at the end of the day, when it was time to collect from the French girl. He intentionally left her last, because the merry chase she sent him on always exhausted him. He had a car, and could have driven, but he always prefered to walk, his bad leg be damned.

As expected, Lacey played pool, alone, in a grossly provocative ensemble. Her pink silk top had a plunging neckline that left little to the imagination, tied off just below her breasts. She teetered in a short black skirt, and impossible stilettos, betraying her drunken state. Taking aim with her cue, she slowly licked her bottom lip, deep in concentration with what mind she had left.

He watched that tongue, steeling himself for their confrontation. Surely enough, once she made her shot, Lacey spotted him, and in an instant he saw the cloudiness caused from beer and smoke fade from her eyes, replaced by disgust.

“Look at what the cat dragged in,” she purred, carrying on with her game. He said nothing, watching her set up her next shot.

“Join me? Loser buys drinks. What do you say, Goldie?” She smirked at him, looking over her shoulder. Still silent, he gripped his cane tightly as she bent over the table, that pert bottom watched by everyone in the bar.

There was never any denial that Lacey was beautiful. Mr. Gold would never admit it, even under pain of death, but he thought her the most enchanting woman in Storybrooke. If only she shut her damn mouth every once in awhile.

She stopped to stretch, folding her arms over her head, the position thrusting out her chest. He needed to say something before he grew fully distracted.

“Miss French, I’m sure you are aware of the date.”

Lacey lay her cue on the table before taking a seat right there on the felt, her legs swinging over the table like a child.

“Don’t need to, Goldie. You’ll always remind me.”

“Then you have it?”

“What’s the rush?” She retrieved her cue, idly fondling an end. “Too busy for a spot of fun before limping back to your hoard?”

Gold could not suppress his eye twitch at the comment. “Clever, Miss French. Referencing my handicap and calling me a dragon all in one. But as a matter of fact, yes, I am a very busy man, so unless you present your dance tips, I can go home and start the eviction notice.”

“Really, Goldie? Dance tips? I bet that took you all day.”

Before he could retort she hopped down from the table. “Relax, I’ve got your money.”

Lacey slowly withdrew her wad of cash, rolled tightly with a rubber band, from within her cleavage. Teasingly, she slid the money over one breast, and up to her collarbone, his eyes glued to every inch. The path continued up her neck, and finally ended at her lips, where she gave her rent a single kiss before waving it directly in his face.

He seized her taunting hand, his grip firm. Taking a step forward, closing the distance between them, he exhaled heavily through his nose, and the bar scene turned away, pretending not to watch.

“You’re a naughty girl, Miss French,” he growled, softly.

“What are you going to do it about it?” she replied, just as softly. “Spank me?”

God, he wanted to do nothing more. At the very moment, he clenched his teeth, and imagined himself bending her over that pool table, lifting up her skirt, and spank her in front of everyone. With every cry, he would smack her harder, leaving a red welt on that soft ass.

Instead, Mr. Gold released her hand, and made his exit, ignoring the obnoxious cackle that followed him out the door. He made it to the street corner before he took a breath, and collected himself, easing his grip on his cane.

Her money was still in his hand, warm from her body. Unnoticed in the dark of dusk, he lifted it to his lips, inhaling her scent, and the memory of her kiss.

That wanton would get hers one day. And he hoped to be the one to deliver it. She needed someone to teach her a lesson; that Mr. Gold was not a man to be toyed with.

A bluff he promised himself, monthly. He knew that he would never do or say anything to her. Mr. Gold was too old, and too ugly. And Lacey was too wild. It would never work.

Limping down Main Street to close his shop, he realized that he did in fact forgot to make a stop at the Lucas bed and breakfast. Oh well, at least it was on the way.

Relieved to see the innkeeper at her desk, he waited until she was done dealing with the blonde woman ahead of him. He had never seen the blonde before. A tourist? Storybrooke never had tourists before, he was certain.

“Name?” asked Granny Lucas, clearly pleased at the prospect of a guest.

“Swan. Emma Swan.”

And at that, Rumplestiltskin smiled Mr. Gold’s smile, decades’ worth of victorious giggling lurking just behind his teeth.

“Emma. _What a lovely name._ ”


End file.
